


Not Even the Gods Know.

by Lucian_De_Vere



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Death, Fluff, M/M, Murder Mystery, Original Character - Freeform, Slow Burn, Smut, There will be fluff, Vampire Laurent, Who was it?, ancel is a succubus, fuck i cant remember half the tags i used, help me its 6am, hopefully smut, im bad at writing smut, laurent is a petulant twink, motherfucker, non binary character, werewolf damen, werewolf x vampire trope, who killed nicaise??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucian_De_Vere/pseuds/Lucian_De_Vere
Summary: Laurent, a newly turned vampire with very little knowledge of the supernatural world he's been forced into, bumps into a lost ghost wandering around the streets of Marlas, and decides to help him get justice for his death. However, there are other Supernatural creatures lurking in Marlas, a group led by a charismatic werewolf called Damianos and a mysterious shapeshifter known as Cyra.AKA a fic where I explore my faves as Supernatural creatures and play around a little. I have a general plot and a direction I can see this going, will try and update monthly! I thought of this fic while watching Being Human (UK version of course) and I'm tryna go for the kinda light comedy vibe but with sort of dark parts throughout, and I've drawn inspiration from many things to kind of attempt to create my own lore on some supernatural beings that will be showing up)(I'm still bad at summaries. Had a bit of a meltdown and deleted the original fic but I've re uploaded and will be posting as normal once again, trying to stick to a monthly schedule)
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 37





	1. The Clouds, the Night and the Moon.

"Help," Nicaise says, to no one but himself, because no one else can hear him. People on the street walk by, some hurrying with their shoulders hunched into their coats, some slow and relaxed, bags swinging as they gaze through shop windows.

Silently he weaves among them, a dull flickering light among the brightest of stars. "Help me, please," he chokes out. His words leave no cloud of breathe in the air. A couple walk by him, laughing vibrantly together, and desperately he steps in front of them, waving his hands in frantic motions. A pair of pale eyes seem to look right past him. "It's rather cold out tonight, isn't it?" the woman murmurs, shivering into her scarf. Her partner nods in agreement, tightly linking their arms together. He watches them turn a corner and disappear.

"Fuck you!" Nicaise spits after them, chest contracting with cold terror, buried beneath a pile of hot rage. "Fuck this!" 

He turns, catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a shop window, and his throat seizes, every curse on the tip of his tongue freezing in place. His face is so pale, his dark curls limp and tangled, blue eyes dull and empty. And across his throat, there's a necklace of blood, choking into his skin. It looks like it should hurt, but it doesn't. He knows he should be cold, but he isn't. 

He's dead. The thought comes to him, slow and stuttering, like ice sliding into his veins. "I'm dead," he says, pressing a hand to the window. He can touch it, but he doesn't feel the cold glass, and his fingers don't leave an imprint behind after he abruptly pulls them away.

He thought he had survived. He thought he had been left behind by that cruel man and the terrible weight of hands on his body, teeth on his neck, had simply woken from the ordeal and stumbled onto the street. But he hadn't. His body is still in that house, lifeless and broken on the floor.

He tries to remember what exactly had happened, but beyond ragged scraps and dark blurs, he recalls nothing. He doesn't even know how long its been anymore. Minutes? Days? He watches people walk by, the stars slowly come out, the moon drifts across the sky like a ship lost at sea, the sun paints the horizon a brilliant shade of fire, and somewhere a bird sings a lonely song. 

"Help." 

Laurent is supposed to turn twenty one today. He is supposed to be on vacation in Ios, celebrating with Auguste. Indulging in fine food and finer wine, exploring the sights like a typical tourist, walking the long stretches of coastline with soft, warm sand between his toes. Instead he is alone, walking the streets of Marlas, the city's imprint vaguely familiar in washed out memories from a childhood visit.

He isn't sure where he is going, or why, but he doesn't think it matters anymore. He is alone, staring at the pitch black sky littered with a thousand handfulls of stars, and feeling as unbearably empty as the darkness between them. Auguste is dead, he thinks, and the pain of it sends a shard of glass through his chest, pieces shattering in his veins. 

Auguste is dead, and Laurent is alive. But not in the way he used to be and not in a way that matters. His body has changed, and everything he once knew as real along with it. His heart beats so slowly now that his chest feels hollow, being out in the sun seems to hurt his head, make him feel tired and sluggish, and his skin has transformed from healthy ivory to a far too pale porcelain, all of the colour drained from his cheeks. But the worst part is the hunger, a deep aching hunger that seeps like black tar into his bones, swallows him whole and leaves him trembling, unable to move.

He hasn't fed yet, even after three months, but it comes in waves, an ocean of red that wants to crash over him, pull him in, and each day it gets stronger. He is grateful he only requires a fraction of the sleep he used to, because his dreams are filled with blood. He can smell it from every living person he sees, sweet and warm and deceptively inviting, like a false promise of home. He feels it thrum through their veins like static in the air, alive and buzzing, and he wants it so much, wants to to let his fangs loose, to dig them into the tender flesh of their necks, to drink until there's nothing left. It would feel so good, it would make the hunger stop, make it all-

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he hears a voice, it cuts through his thoughts like an icy blade and be blinks away the vision of red behind his eyes. He is back in the wide city street, tall clustered buildings climbing up around him beneath a spray of stars and a circle of clouded moonlight. His hands are clutched to his chest and his whole body is shaking. He takes a deep breathe, forces his trembling to stop, and swivels around to see a child, standing across the street and staring at him with wide blue eyes. As their eyes meet, the boy subtly flinches back, and lowers his gaze. Long lashes cast shadows over a young, delicate face. 

Laurent watches him, contemplating, and slowly realises the boy has no pulse. There's no buzz of energy about him, no smell of blood, of life. He looks pale beneath the illumination of the moon, his dark hair glowing almost silver. He's dead. But not in the same way Laurent is. People can see and hear Laurent, but this boy seemed surprised to be acknowledged.

"Are you fucking staring?" he spits, voice like acid. "You can see me, right?" he's glaring now, face twisted into a scowl. Laurent quickly scans the street to make sure no one is around, and satisfied there's nothing but shadows, he nods. "Crystal clear," he says. 

"Are you dead, like me?" the boy asks. He is still scowling, chin raised defiantly, but there is something vulnerable in his eyes and a slight tremble in his voice. 

"I am dead. But I don't think I'm dead like you," Laurent says quietly, crossing the road. He goes slowly, so as not to alarm him.

"What do you mean, not like me?" he asks, backing away slightly. "You're not a ghost?" 

Laurent shakes his head. "I'm...not sure what I am. Or rather, not sure I believe it." 

"What are you supposed to be then? A zombie?" the child snorts.

A streetlamp above him flickers, and he can hear the electrical buzz as though its right next to his ear. "A vampire?" he says, his voice tilts up with a questioning note as he realises how ridiculous it is to say out loud. 

The boy goes still, mouth opening slightly, and then huffs out a small laugh. "Is that a joke?" he says.

Laurent shakes his head. "I wish it was."

"You're for real? You're not some mad man that thinks he's a vampire because he has a fetish for the taste of blood or something?" the words seem to spill out with some sort of grim amusement. 

Laurent shakes his head, frowns. "That's- how did you even come up with that? You're about twelve," he says.

"I'm fourteen," the boy spits with a sharp glare. "Was. Was fourteen," there is a waver in his stubborn gaze, but he does not look away. Laurent's heart aches for him, suddenly. Looking at this boy, he sees someone far more lonely than he could ever imagine. A boy whose life was cut short. A boy who can't be seen or heard, who wanders around alone in the dark, calling out to strangers in hopes that he will get a reply.

"I'm sorry," Laurent says. 

"Fuck off," he hisses, "Sorry won't help me. Sorry won't-" his voice catches, and as he takes a deep breathe, Laurent sees the familiar way he forces his expression back into rigid indifference. "Whatever. Fuck you. Don't you have some people to kill or whatever, since you're apparently a vampire." 

Laurent feels his stomach churn, and the hunger burns like fire in the back of his throat. He swallows it down. "I don't hurt people," he says, forcing his voice to be steady. "I never have. And I never will." 

"You're a shitty vampire then," the boy says.

"I suppose I am," Laurent replies with a faltering smile. "But I would rather be shit at being a vampire than good at it." 

"What's your name, anyway?" the boy asks, looking him up and down. 

"Laurent. And yours?" 

"Nicaise," he replies slowly. "I would say it's nice to meet you, but it really isn't."

Damen first catches the scent while he's standing outside Crescent Moon, a nightclub run by some sort of Fae shape shifter, that serves as a safe gathering place for the residents of Marlas who, like himself, are not exactly human.

The smoke from his cigarette curls up as a glowing flake of ash falls to the ground at his feet, and the subtle trace of death, decay, mixes with the acrid smell of smoke and tightly pulls every hair on his body upright. Vampire he thinks, lowering his cigarette and exhaling into the cold night air. 

He can still hear the music pounding like a muffled heartbeat in the air, and through the soft blur of smoke he sees him, pale and blond at the front entrance to an old apartment building across the street, balancing a bag of groceries in one hand while he fumbles with a set of keys in the other. Luckily, he seems too preoccupied to notice Damen. Vampires don't have the same keen sense of smell as Werewolves, but if they get close enough they can still often tell them apart from ordinary humans. It's instinct perhaps, for one deadly predator to recognise another.

Eventually the vampire manages to unlock the door, not without uttering a few curses, and stumbles inside, slamming it shut behind him.

Damen lifts his phone to text Nikandros. 

new vamp in the city, he sends. 

Shit, where? comes the reply, only moments later.

the old apartments across from crescent moon.

Time to grab the stakes. Damen smirks at the response, and then feels a pang of guilt.

Although he hopes they don't have to resort to something so drastic, it's likely they'll end up killing the vampire, simply because their kind are far too dangerous to be left alone. They learned that lesson firsthand from the last one that passed through Marlas and left a trail of blood and bones in its wake. The thing that makes them so dangerous is that they have no choice but to feed on humans. Even if they are able to resist the cravings for blood, they'll eventually starve to death without it. Their bodies need it to function, in the same way most living things need oxygen to breathe.

talk first, stake later, he replies, as the yellow glow of light fills a room on the second floor of the building, and he sees dark curtains being tightly pulled shut. 


	2. The Phantom Menace

"So," Laurent says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of green tea in one hand. "I've been thinking about how to find your killer."

It's been just over a week since that cold night, where under the silent gaze of the moon and stars, Laurent stumbled upon the lost little ghost, wandering in the dark and hurtling abuse at strangers. 

They ended up talking most of the night, and Nicaise had a lot to say, presumably because he hadn't spoken to anyone since he died. After finding out that the boy was murdered in a nearby vacant apartment and both his body and killer were never found, Laurent decided to help him find justice.

It didn't take a lot to track down the owner of the apartment and convince them that selling was in their best interest. He just offered up his usual grace and charm, along with a large chunk of money from his inheritance.

Couple that with the fact that people are not too keen on keeping houses that are essentially made uninhabitable by an irritating teenage ghost - that in his own words, has managed to scare away half a dozen previous tenants, simply by smashing a few glasses, rearranging dining chairs in the night, and flicking the lights on and off at random intervals - the deal was sealed in a matter of days.

The apartment isn't ridiculously huge and lavish like Laurent is used to back in Vere, but rather humble in size and minimalist in decor, much more in the Akielon in style, which he thinks he prefers. He doesn't want to be reminded of home right now, so something the polar opposite gives him a strange sense of comfort.

They're currently sat in the kitchen, a small open room divided only from the living area by a row of granite topped counters, which Nicaise is in the habit of sitting on top of, his legs dangling over the side. 

"You're actually going to try?" the boy asks, folding his legs beneath himself and seemingly staring out at nothing. There's a look in his eyes that reminds Laurent of the ocean colliding with a rocky shore, and he thinks perhaps this isn't a conversation he's ready to have.  
He had waited a couple of days to broach the subject, simply because he wanted time for them to settle in, or rather time for Nicaise to adjust having another person in his space that he can actually directly interact with. 

"I said I would, didn't I?" Laurent replies, taking a sip from his mug. "But we don't have to talk about any of this now," he says, offering Nicaise a way out of the conversation.

"If it helps, I've been dead for around eight months," the boy says, his voice sounding a little distant, as though he can't quite understand the words he's saying. Laurent is silent, waiting to see if he's going to reveal anything more. He hasn't really spoken much of his death, other than the brief details on the night they met.

Before either of them can say anything, the sudden sound of knocking at the door reverberates through the room, and Laurent has to suppress a jolt. Nicaise scowls, as though the sound has personally offended him, and then disappears presumably to check on who is on the other side. Every time the boy uses his teleportation powers, he always leaves behind a wave of cold, almost static energy in the air behind him. It's an odd feeling that sends cold shivers running up and down his spine like icy fingers.

Nicaise reappears a moment later, back on the counter next to Laurent, and a devious grin spreads across his face. "It's your favourite horny neighbour," he says.

Laurent sighs. "I think I'm just going to pretend I'm not in," he says, in a hushed, conspiring tone.

"Coward," Nicaise responds, before leaping off of the counter and making a point of bumping into one of the dining chairs, which of course clatters into the dining table with enough force that Torveld probably hears it from the other side of the door.

"You little shit," Laurent whispers harshly, before reluctantly heading over to answer the door. He hears Nicaise's chuckle follow him.

Torveld, Laurent's downstairs neighbour, is currently standing in the doorway as expected. A Patran man in his mid-thirties, with long dark hair and the faint imprint of laughter lines around his eyes, Torveld smiles just a little too enthusiastically as he looks at Laurent's face.

"Laurent, how are you this afternoon?" he asks, his smile broadening. 

The man came around to welcome him to the building the day after Laurent moved in, and this is now visit number four, in just as many days. The second was an offer to show Laurent around the city, which was politely declined. The third, a far more forward invitation to dinner, which again was declined, in much the same manner. Laurent has yet to discover the reason for this fourth visit, but he isn't stupid nor naive enough to presume it's purely just for small talk.

"I'm fine," Laurent says. Forcing out polite talk with neighbours is not something he really enjoys, but he knows that he will only make himself seem far more suspicious if he doesn't put in a little bit of effort, so it's worth enduring the man's fumbling attempts at flattery if it means Laurent will seem like an ordinary human living alone, rather than an essentially dead vampire living with a much more thoroughly dead ghost. Best to keep up appearances and all.

"And how are you, Torveld?" he inquires, with that thought in mind.

"I'm concerned," he says. 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. "And what are you concerned about?" he asks, trying to at least feign interest despite the fact he doesn't particularly care. 

"Have you not heard the stories about this apartment?" he asks. 

"That it's haunted?" he asks. Torveld nods in response. _I've heard them directly from the little shit haunting the place_ , he thinks.

"It's merely rumours," he elects to say, instead. "An old building like this is bound to have some ghost stories, is it not?" 

"So you don't believe in any of it?" he asks.

Behind them, Nicaise is leaning on the dark surface of the counter, and begins laughing uncontrollably. Laurent has to consciously put effort into tuning the boy out so he can focus on the older man's words. 

"I've lived here for almost a week now and I haven't noticed anything," he states, calmly.

"Wow, guess I'm fucking invisible then," Nicaise says, before bursting into another fit of laughter. _You're a fucking menace_ , Laurent thinks.

Torveld raises a well-trimmed eyebrow. "Really? I never used to believe in ghosts myself, but after living downstairs for a couple of months even I'm convinced something unnatural is going on."

"The only unnatural thing going on is that you want to fuck a vampire," Nicaise says, echoing the train of thought that Laurent is trying so desperately not to follow. He doesn't miss the lingering glances, the way in which Torveld's gaze softens as Laurent speaks, the subtle flutter of his pulse. He knows what all of that means, even if he chooses to ignore it.

He feels sickness churn inside him as soon as the thoughts are solidified by Nicaise's statement, for many reasons that he doesn't want to even begin trying to untangle in his head. He pushes down the uneasy feeling in his gut and smiles at Torveld.

"Children playing pranks, most likely," he replies with a subtle edge to his voice, mostly in a futile attempt to silence Nicaise. "I'm telling you, nothing seems out of the ordinary," as he says that, he hears something clatter harshly behind him, and turns to see the remains of a broken plate scattered on the wooden floor by the dining table, Nicaise standing next to it and smiling innocently.

He gives him a small warning glare before turning back to Torveld, whose eyes are wide with shock. "See!" the man says. "You can't deny it now!"

Laurent huffs out a breathe of laughter. "That was simply gravity," he responds with a tight smile, his patience for both people present gradually being worn down paper thin. "I apologise if I'm being rude, but it's getting a little late and I still have a few things to unpack and arrange," Laurent quickly says, the lie slipping out easily.

He barely has any possessions because he didn't want to take anything from his old house, the place now oversized and empty, littered with the scars of bloodstained memories.

"Do you need any help? I'm free tonight," Torveld offers, brown eyes lighting up.

"The offer is much appreciated," Laurent says. "But I am fine, thank you." 

"Ah, I will leave you to it then," Torveld responds politely. Laurent doesn't miss the disappointment buried in his voice. "If you need anything, you know where I am." 

Laurent nods and utters a quiet thanks, before closing the door and then spinning round to shoot and ice cold glare at the mischievous poltergeist currently lingering in his kitchen.

"What is wrong with you?" he demands.

Nicaise smiles wickedly. "It's funny to fuck with people," he simply states. He wonders if this behaviour is some sort of coping mechanism to deal with being dead, a by-product of being on his own for so long, or if Nicaise has always been an annoying little shit. He thinks perhaps it's a bit of both.

"Maybe for you, but I can't afford to have people be suspicious of me," he explains, exasperated. 

The boy only shrugs, and saunters toward the sofa in the living room, settling down among the cushions. "At least you can talk to people," he says. "And that Torveld guy is so desperate to get his dick inside you I don't think he will really care about the fact you're a vampire, even if you do decide to chow down on him." 

"That's not the point!" Laurent snaps, his patience finally being pulled to breaking point. "And I'm not going to chow down on anyone." 

"Alright, chill out," Nicaise says. "It was just a bit of fun. You don't need to be a prick about it." 

"I'm not being a prick," Laurent sighs, closing his eyes and attempting to reign in his temper. He reminds himself that Nicaise is just a child, a fourteen year old boy who was murdered and has pretty much been on his own for eight months. Laurent softens the sharp edge of his voice. "I just don't want to draw attention to myself," he says. "And when you start throwing my crockery around in front of the neighbours, you make that more difficult."

"It was simply gravity," Nicaise protests, a mock of Laurent's earlier explanation. "Besides, you've already drawn attention to yourself. Speaking of, I'm gonna go watch Torveld mope about being rejected by you again," he says with a fiendish grin.

"Don't you-" before he can finish, the boy has already vanished, leaving behind that cold, fading static in the air. Laurent takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Nicaise can't physically interact with objects outside of the apartment, so he can't really do anything other than harmlessly spectate. 

Not knowing how long the peace is going to last, Laurent decides to make another cup of tea, his previous one having gone cold, and simply enjoy the brief interval of silence. He's learning that moments of silence are few and far between when you share a relatively small apartment with a restless spirit.

As he is stirring hot water into his mug, the soft scent of jasmine floating in the air around him, he is suddenly interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door, and a spike of irritation twists through him. Feeling as though he has crossed the line of exasperation and ventured into the realm of being thoroughly pissed off tonight, he doesn't have the energy to deal with anyone else at the moment. Giving in to the temptation of just remaining in the kitchen until whoever it is goes away, he leans on the kitchen counter and takes a careful sip of his tea.

After a few moments it comes again, the repetitive banging on the front door a lot harsher the second time around. Annoyance pounds through his skull, and he sets his mug down none too gently, striding purposefully over to the door and preparing to tell whoever it is to leave him in peace.

But something stops him a few feet away from the door. He isn't exactly sure what, but some cold instinct crawls through his bones, warning him of danger. The sensation of it hangs in the air, dark and heavy like fog, and Laurent steps away, deciding that perhaps whatever is on the other side of the wall should remain there.

He watches the front door vigilantly, his stomach chafing with nerves, until he hears receding footsteps, -multiple sets- and with it the inexplicable feeling of fear gradually fades. He wonders if it's a vampire thing, a gut instinct that alerts him to the presence of danger, even if he doesn't understand the danger himself. Perhaps it was a reaction to someone - or something- that meant to cause him harm. 

He goes to the window, pulling the curtains back just slightly and letting in a crack of orange sunlight, dusk already beginning its descent on the city as he watches the street below. After a minute or so, he sees three tall, dark haired men leave via the front entrance of the building, and that impulse of fear flutters in his nerves once more. They're not human, he thinks, as they cross the street and disappear out of view. He wants to pull the curtain back and lean forward to get a better view, but he doesn't think it's a wise move if they happen to look back and catch him watching them.

Instead he closes the curtain and makes his way back to the sitting area, his legs feeling shaky beneath him. He gets caught up inside his thoughts for a while, wondering if he's in any real danger, and when Nicaise returns, perfectly poised on the kitchen counter as though he'd been sat there the entire time, Laurent still feels a little on edge. He glances up from his seat on the sofa and catches the glint of amusement in the ghost's eyes. Nicaise's gaze lights up, blue like sunlight in the sky, as he meets Laurent's, and a wide grin spreads across his face.

"What?" Laurent asks.

"Your neighbour is weird," the boy chuckles, and says nothing else. Laurent decides it's probably in his best interest to not ask any questions.

"Are there any other...non humans in the city?" he asks instead. The edge of nervousness still lingers slightly, like cold water in his veins.

"A few," he responds. "There's some at Crescent Moon across the street. I only found out because I tried to sneak into the club and got caught. A couple of guys told me I couldn't be there. I figured something was up, so I spent some time lingering around outside, seeing who else could see me. It turns out a few of them could. I'm not sure what they are, or if they figured out I'm a ghost, though." 

"The Nightclub?" Laurent asks. "Do you remember anything else?" 

"I don't know. It was months ago. Why do you even care?" 

"Just curious," he says, taking in this information and turning it over in his head. He feels his image of Marlas redrawing itself to include another layer beneath the surface, a space where people like him can gather. It's too much of a coincidence it's just across the street from him and that three non-humans came knocking on his door, a mere four days after he moved in.

Perhaps in the same way he felt their presence, they've caught wind of his. It could also be they were looking for Nicaise. If the ghost spent some time lingering around the club, they might have wanted to reach out to him, especially with rumours of the haunted building circling. But the timing doesn't make sense for that. Nicaise approached the place months ago, and the rumours of his paranormal activities have been circling for longer than that, if Torveld's information is anything to go by.

He's sure they're looking for him, and they already know where he is, so there's no point in hiding. He doesn't know why they were looking for him, what their intentions are. The lack of information frustrates him, makes him feel off balance. He can't think like this, can't put all the pieces together and draw a conclusion, and he hates it. He doesn't understand how this supernatural world he's been forced into functions, how he can approach others like him and figure out his place now that his view of reality has been tilted, shadows shifting over everything he once knew.


	3. Crescent Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for descriptions or murder, dead bodies, starvation & implied sexual violence.  
> if you think i need to add any other content warnings feel free to message me or comment them. this applies to all chapters, i want to make sure everything that could be considered a potential trigger is mentioned!
> 
> (I've changed a few things toward the end of this chapter and I'm a lot happier with it now!)

_"Little flower, what do you see?_   
_A sea of corpses, a river of death in the grass_   
_The break of dawn would be ashamed_   
_Of what we have done here in the dark"_

Laurent awakes with a start, and still feels that voice pressing on the inside of his skull, the echo of a whisper at the back of his mind. He doesn't recognise the words, or who was saying them, but for some reason it unsettles him, leaves a chill deep on the inside of his bones.

He doesn't recall falling asleep, but it always happens suddenly. Every day at around noon he feels an overwhelming sense of tiredness wash over him, like a wave knocking him to the ground, and he seems to pass out for a couple of hours. At first it was difficult, because he didn't understand it and always tried to fight it, but every time he was pulled under into the cold, dark oblivion of unconsciousness. Now he's learned that it's inevitable, but he knows when to expect it and how to prepare for it. It's the only form of sleep he ever actually gets these days. It's all his monstrous body needs.

From among the cushions on the sofa, he slowly pushes himself up, messy blond hair falling over his face. He brushes it back with his hand, and feels the unpleasant heat of sunlight against his skin. He blinks against it as it hurts his eyes, and regrets keeping the living room curtains open to try and portray some sense of normality to the outside world.

He misses the days that sunlight was just sunlight, where it was warm and soft and golden. Now it just irritates him, makes him feel as though his skin is itching from inside, and gives him a headache. Speaking of headaches, he sees Nicaise at the edge of his vision, a blur perched on the arm of the sofa.

"Are you watching me sleep?" Laurent asks.

"No, I was...drawing," he replies. Laurent hears the smirk in his voice, and turns to see the boy with a pen in hand, but nothing to actually draw on. He thinks of asking what he was using as a canvas, but when the ghost's eyes seem to trail over his face, alight with amusement, he realises the answer to that.

"You better not have," Laurent glares at him, getting up and heading into the bathroom. Sure enough, as he catches his reflection in the mirror, he sees doodles all over his face, mainly explicit and childish images. The black ink looks so stark against his pale, weary skin. Laurent tries not to look at his reflection, at the hollow of his cheekbones that seems to sharpen by the day, the dark smudges beneath his eyes that are only getting darker. He's losing weight, he thinks, and the hunger within him is growing heavier.

Nicaise appears beside him, smiling with glee. "I've gotta keep myself entertained during your afternoon naps somehow," he says. 

"Is this a hint that you would like sketchbook or are you just being a nuisance?" Laurent asks, before scrubbing at his face with hot water and soap. He sees the boy shrug, and then wander off back into the living room. 

Ten minutes later, with a thoroughly clean face, Laurent is settled back down on the sofa, laptop balancing on his knees. "So, before I fell asleep, I was doing a little digging around online," he says, glancing at Nicaise. The ghost is on the opposite side of the couch, this time sitting properly on the seat instead of resting on the arm. His face is blank, but Laurent can see the apprehension in his eyes. 

Nicaise had approached him in the early hours of this morning, when the apartment was still dark with the shadows of night, chin raised defiantly and eyes hard with resolve. "Alright," He had said. "We can look into finding my killer now, and then you can rip the fucker's face off," his voice had been carefully still, but there was emotion boiling under there, something he wasn't quite able to hide. It sounded a little like sadness, and a lot like anger.

"I'm not going to..." Laurent had began, but then closed his mouth, realising how difficult this decision must have been for him. He couldn't imagine how hard it was to ask someone to investigate your murder while you watched, how exposed and vulnerable it must feel knowing that they are possibly going to take a good, long look at your final days of being alive. 

"Fine. If you're sure," he had said, instead. "I'll share everything I find with you, and if at any time you change your mind, I will drop the entire thing, okay?" 

"Whatever," the ghost had snorted in response. "I just hope you're not as incompetent as you look."

Now Laurent pulls up the web page, and they're both staring at a news article dated for August 22nd, which was just over eight months ago, with the title "MARLAS MURDERER ON THE LOOSE?" in large bold print. The article explains that on August the 3rd, the body of a young woman named Abrielle Vieux was found with her throat slit and on the 12th, the body of a man called Terrence Callier had been discovered in a similiar condition.

The authorities warned that these incidents may be linked, and upon further research, Laurent discovers a third confirmed victim, a teenaged boy by the name of Leonus Tasso, and that six other people had gone missing from Marlas around the same time that the murders took place. He can't find Nicaise's name among those listed as missing, but he is almost certain that whoever was responsible for these murders was also the person responsible for killing Nicaise. The fact he was killed in Marlas around eight months ago and has the same wound as the other victims...

The authorities had never managed to solve anything though, and although it was never stated so blatantly, from his research Laurent figures out that they were clueless. No leads, no evidence, no suspects, nothing. Not for those murdered, nor for those missing. He feels a spike of frustration. He was hoping he would find more.

But he has something they don't have. The ghost of a victim, and the knowledge that the apartment he's living in is somehow linked to the killer. He isn't sure how to utilise this information, since Nicaise can't remember a lot about the night he was killed, and he currently has no access to information on previous tenants. But it's a start he thinks, and with time he can build something around it.

"I think I remember hearing about the murders. They said it was a serial killer," Nicaise informs him, when he relays his findings to the boy. Laurent also recalls stories of the killings circling the net, but he never paid much attention to them at the time. He had lived in Arles, and hadn't really looked much at the world beyond the pages of his books. Maybe if he had, he would have been better prepared for everything that tore his life away from him. A dark feeling slithers through his chest, and he ignores it, focusing instead on what Nicaise is saying.

"But I think when I was killed..." the boy hesitates for a moment, and Laurent hears the waver in his voice. "There was two men in the room with me," he says, glancing nervously at the door that leads to the largest bedroom in the flat.

Laurent doesn't like the blank look in the ghost's eyes, or the way his whole body seems to go tense, his jaw rigid. I know that look, he thinks, and he feels a sickness settle like bile in the back of his throat. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to jump to any conclusions about the nature of the boy's murder, but his heart feels like a lump of rock in his chest. He's glad he hasn't really used the bed often, and now he thinks he might move his things into the spare room and sleep there when he needs to.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to share," he replies carefully.

"I can handle it!" the ghost spits. "Don't treat me like a child," there's a defensive flare of rage in his voice, and suddenly he is on his feet, watching Laurent with ice in his eyes. Laurent knows this is probably how he hides his vulnerability, behind layers of vitriol and acid, by lashing out and pushing everyone away. Laurent had been the same at fourteen. But Laurent had survived. Nicaise hadn't. 

"I didn't mean it that way, Nicaise," he says, calmly. 

"Whatever," the boy says, and then in a wave of ice, he is gone, leaving the room silent and empty. He probably just needs space, but doesn't want to admit to it.

Laurent feels a weight in his chest, a knot tying itself inside his lungs, and takes a few moments before deciding to stop his research for now. He doesn't feel right continuing after Nicaise's outburst, the boy is understandably distressed and perhaps it was just too much for him today. Guilt prickles at Laurent's skin, and he's worried that maybe he pushed too far, unloaded too much information on him at once and caused him to remember something upsetting. 

He's about to close his browser when he sees an image at the bottom of the article he was looking at. It's a small, grainy portrait of a serious looking man with dark hair. The photograph is in greyscale, and the man appears to be in uniform, but it's difficult to make out much else due to the quality. But for some reason, something about the picture just catches his attention and holds it. He feels an uneasiness crawl into his gut.

Beneath the image, it reads "Disgrace as Lead investigator of the Marlas Murders, Nikandros Kyroi, resigns over case gone cold." 

Laurent looks him up, and as a clear image of his face loads, Laurent feels a chill cut through him, a fraying at the edge of his nerves. It's a similar echo to the feeling he felt yesterday when the men that probably weren't human came to his door. It sets all of his instincts on edge in the same way. He recalls they all had dark hair, and as he studies the man's face, the serious set of his brow, the sharpness of his features, the gleam of something in his brown eyes, he just knows, like a whisper in his gut, that Nikandros Kyroi isn't human.

That information is enough to set his mind racing with multiple questions and multiple answers that lead to more questions. If the supernatural community of Marlas have their claws in the police, how much higher does their influence reach? Politics? Govornment? Did the investigation fail on purpose, were they covering for someone, something, sabotaging it to hide their existence? To protect one of their own?

Or was it just a coincidence, just a killer that knew how to cover their tracks so well they got away from the police, and Nikandros was just unlucky enough to be the one in charge at the time? Once again, he feels his view of the city shift, slowly remapping itself in his mind. This isn't just a group of supernaturals that banded together in Marlas. This is an organisation, with real power and influence among humanity, existing safely inside the masses, and perhaps even preying on them, he realises with a shudder.

Was Nicaise a victim to whatever monsters lurk in the city of Marlas? Maybe the missing bodies were never found because there were no bodies to find. If vampires drink human blood, then surely there's something out there that feeds on human flesh? He recalls Nicaise's mocking voice, asking if he's a zombie, and thinks maybe it's not so much a joke anymore.

Regardless, whatever they are, it's highly likely they have information on Nicaise's killers. Approaching them would mean he has a chance find the killers' identity. But approaching them might also be dangerous. He doesn't know enough about the dynamic of this world to know if he'll be welcome, and when they came to his door it didn't exactly feel like they wanted to take a leaf from Torveld's book and introduce themselves to show him around the city.

But the least he can do is attempt it, show interest in joining them. He knows how to be charming, persuasive. He knows how to read people and tell them what they want to hear. Or what they don't want to hear. He can use that, and then gather information through them, their networks. If he finds out that they're protecting the killers, he can manipulate the situation, tear them apart from the inside out in order to get Justice for Nicaise. And if not, well maybe he'll make some friends during his stay in Marlas, and maybe they'll prove to be useful friends.

Crescent Moon he thinks, wondering what the name means, if it means anything at all.

Even among the overwhelming smell of the crowd, with their body odour and sickly sweet array of perfumes, Damen catches it. The scent of decay lingers, stale and heavy in the air, and he turns to see a familiar blond head, weaving his way gracefully among the tangle of limbs in the crowd, an eager dark haired man in tow. A human, Damen realises, as he narrows his eyes on the couple bee lining for the bar.

He glances at Cyra and Pallas, who are working the bar tonight, but they are far too busy to have noticed the men coming their way. Damen wonders what the vampire is doing, arrogantly strutting around in the heart of their territory, after ignoring them when they tried to make contact with him. He wonders if he even knows, or if he just happens to be out on the hunt for his next meal. He wonders if he has found it. The dark haired human can't take his eyes off of the blond, totally captivated by him as he follows behind. There's stories that some vampires are able to charm their victims.

The lights around the club are bright, painting the room in flashes of red and white, and the music pounds through him as he moves, planning to go around the ever shifting mass of people and make his way behind the bar. A perk of being Security is that people tend to move out of his way once they eye the uniform. 

The blond vampire leans forward onto the dark surface of the bar just as Damen emerges from the staff room behind it. The man he's with is ordering from a stiff seeming Pallas with a polite smile, while vampire watches, his eyes cold with an unreadable sharpness. The lights behind him pour glowing red into his hair, painting him with neon ribbons of blood for a fraction of a second.

He blinks as the room flashes with white, large blue eyes sliding to Damen, and quirks an eyebrow as he leans closer to the human's side. Damen holds his gaze and realises that he can't do or say anything that would arouse suspicion while the vampire is glued to a human like that. Maybe that's the point of bringing him in here, because he knows that they won't be able to directly act in a way that would create a scene. The man is, in a very particular way, a human shield.

Damen hates it. The man smiles at the blond and offers him the glass of red wine, completely oblivious to the danger he is in, that he's standing next to a creature that would rather drink the blood from his body than the wine from his glass. The vampire delicately plucks the glass from his hand and saunters off into the crowd, with one last glance back at the bar. His eyes meet Damen's, sharp and blue, and there's an edge to his barely present smile, like the subtle flash of a blade.

"Vamp in the club," he says lowly into the microphone on his headpiece. A second later Aktis' voice crackles through, startled. "Fuck," he says. "What should we do?"

"We'll keep an eye on him," Damen says, watching as the two settle down on plush red seats, as far from the bar and dance floor as possible. "He's with a human, booth twelve."

"Okay boss," comes the response. He relays the same information to Nikandros via text, urging him to keep the information to himself for now. If some of the others find out, they'll definitely show up and make a scene. He wouldn't put it past Makedon to stake the vampire on the dancefloor. It's probably best he doesn't find out about their little vampire problem until Damen thinks of a way to deal with it. He doesn't want to go straight to killing him, but if he thinks anyone is in danger he might have to. A repeat of eight months ago is not an option.

Pallas turns to him moments later, wide eyed and shaking. "I..." the young man begins.

Damen hadn't been there when Orlant was killed by a vampire eight months ago, but Pallas had. The image of his friend's body was burned bloody into Damen's mind, the corpse in such a terrible state it was barely recognisable as anything vaguely humanoid. Damen couldn't imagine what it was like to witness a murder like that firsthand. Pallas doesn't have to imagine. 

Damen can see it written on his face in the tremble of his lip, the hollow fear in his eyes, like he's not quite registering his surroundings. A protective rage flares inside him, and he wants to punch the vampire in his smug face for daring to show up here. He knows it's not the vampire's fault, it's likely he doesn't know anything about the true nature of the murders - they did a good job of covering it up, at a huge cost to Nikandros' reputation among human society. Anyone outside of their little network wouldn't know it was anything more than a human serial killer that never got caught.

He clenches his fists, forces the anger down into the pit of his stomach, and draws in a deep breathe. "Sit through the back for a while," he says. "Cyra can handle the bar on their own," 

At the mention of their name, the shapeshifter glances at Damen with bright blue eyes, and nods, offering Pallas a sympathetic smile before expertly going back to preparing a cocktail, a perfect demonstration that they're on top of the situation.

Damen leads Pallas to the staff room in the back, a small area with basic kitchen utilities, a desk and half a dozen chairs. He watches as Pallas seems to crumple into a chair, head sagging heavily into his hands. "I'm sorry," he says, voice choked. "I can't stop thinking of him."

"It's fine. Do you want me to call Lazar?" Damen asks. "You can go home for tonight if you need to."

"No!" he protests, looking up at Damen. His eyes are shining, as though he's holding back tears. "I can stay. I just need a few minutes." 

Pallas, at nineteen, is the youngest in their little pack, and is constantly trying to prove himself, impress his elders and make sure they're not looking down on him. Damen remembers feeling that way at nineteen too, remembers pushing himself too far from fear of showing weakness, trying to pretend that nothing could hurt him. He doesn't want Pallas to think he has to do that, too. 

"Take your time. If you change your mind, text me or talk to Cyra. I need to go back out there and keep an eye on the situation," Damen tells him, with one last glance before he leaves the room back the way he came.

The vampire is still where he was minutes ago, perched on the edge of the booth with his long legs crossed, the human sat across from him nodding enthusiastically at something he's saying. Damen tries to circle the club following his usual routine, but doesn't go anywhere that would impede his line of site on the blond, and he notices Aktis doing the same, the other werewolf looking serious in his dark clothing.

There's no point in attempting to hide the fact that they're watching him, but he doesn't want to make it overtly obvious incase the human he's with catches on and starts to ask questions. The vampire glances over at him, but seems unperturbed by the fact he's being watched. Damen feels on edge, almost like they're having a silent standoff, and that one wrong move could lead to another body on his hands.

The atmosphere of the club seems oblivious to what's going on in the shadows. The lights continue flashing, the rise and fall of the music pounds through him, and bodies surge together in an ocean of limbs that sounds like drunken laughter and off key singing. It's the same as any other busy friday night. Except a killer is sat among them, sipping wine from a glass and watching it all with cold eyes. 

It takes him a few minutes of observation from this far away, but he notices something about the vampire's body language, a stiffness in his movements, and his fingers shake slightly as he picks up his glass. It sets off some sort of internal alarm. He's hungry Damen thinks, taking a closer look at his face. There's dark circles beneath his eyes, like shadows on his skin, and his cheekbones are harsh, jutting out just a little too much to look healthy. He's probably not fed in months, Damen realises. Which means he needs to be separated from the humans, and it needs to be done as soon as possible.

Before he can begin thinking of a plan, the vampire leans across the table and says something to the dark haired man, before standing up. He catches Damen's eye, gaze veiled through long lashes, and for a moment they're almost staring each other down. And then he wanders to the main exit and disappears outside, the door swinging behind him. The human doesn't follow, and Damen thinks perhaps this is an invitation to talk alone, or perhaps this is a trap that he's foolishly contemplating walking right into. 

The cold night air washes over Laurent like relief on his skin, and the black canvas of the night sky stretching infinitely above him gives him an odd sense of comfort, despite the situation he's currently in.

Laurent had always hated nightclubs, loud and overcrowded and sweaty, with an underlying sense of lust and desperation in the air. But now, he realises, he hates them even more. Dancing all night gets people's pulses racing, blood pumping wildly through their veins, and he can almost see it beneath their skin, can almost imagine how it would taste on his lips. Rich and sweet, he thinks, just like last time, just like -

He hears the doors swing open, music briefly pounding through the air around him, and it drags him away from his thoughts. He sees one of the club's bouncers, a tall, broad shouldered man with the kind of body that likely comes from years of working out, pushing a hand through his dark, damp curls, before slightly readjusting his security headpiece.

He had caught the man's attention earlier, purposefully attempting to lure him outside, and seemingly it had worked. Everything is going to plan so far. Laurent presses his phone to his ear and speaks. "Yes, I'm fine," he says. "I'll be home soon," a pause in which he lets his gaze swing over to the man, as if only just noticing him. Their eyes meet, and Laurent feels that sense of panic prick in his chest, slide like ice through his bones. He ignores it, forces his voice to be steady. "I have to go now. Bye." He says.

The man's eyes narrow on him warily. Laurent offers him a jovial smile, and pretends to hang up his phone. "My friend is worried about me," he explains. "You know what it's like when you are out, your friends like to make sure you get home safely." 

He hopes his ruse isn't seen right through and it conveys the message that he wants to convey. There is someone waiting for me, there will be consequences if I don't make it home. It's not exactly a lie. Nicaise might kick up a fuss if Laurent doesn't come home, but there's not really a lot the little ghost can do aside from yell profanities. Letting them think he's got more allies than one disgruntled ghost means they might not just kill him, if that's what they feel like doing. Although he had reasoned before coming here that if they wanted him dead, they could merely break into his apartment at around noon and kill him in his sleep, so he's fairly confident he's safe. But it's always best to try and put as many precautions in place as possible.

Torveld was also a little bit of extra insurance. He feels slightly guilty for inviting the man out and leading him on a little, but he needed a human and Torveld is the only human he knows now. Having someone with him means that he's less likely to be harassed at the club by people who want to sleep with him. And more importantly, the staff, he now suspects none of which are human, can't do or say anything that would raise any eyebrows while the man is glued to his side if they want to keep a low profile on what they are. And what they're possibly doing. And again, there's no clearer statement that he has allies than to bring one of them with him. 

"What do you want?" the bouncer asks, impatiently. 

Laurent gazes up at the stars and thinks about how to answer. They blink back down at him, and he turns to look at the non human bouncer before him. The man seems a little on edge, but not outwardly aggressive, which is usually not a bad sign. "You showed up at my doorstep," Laurent states. "I want to know why." 

The man observes him for a moment before answering. "To talk, just like we are now," he says earnestly. But there's a tension in his voice and a defensiveness in his posture that suggests he's waiting for Laurent to launch some sort of assault in his direction. Are vampires really that scary? he thinks. Then he recalls his uncle, the speed with which he moved, the strength with which he lifted Auguste off of his feet, and he realises, with a stab of fear in his chest, that yes. Vampires are terrifying. 

There are a few people lingering outside, a group of women giggling at the end of the road, a man smoking a cigarette a dozen meters away, but Laurent is confident no one is within earshot as long as they don't raise their voices.

"I'm not here to cause any trouble," he says. "I'm looking for somewhere safe. Am I not welcome here?" he asks. 

The man seems to assess him for a moment. "Somewhere you can safely prey on humans?" he asks. Laurent hears the note of dissaproval in his voice. He shakes his head, and lets the disgust he feels at the thought show on his face. He doesn't want to drink from someone. Never again.

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "The thought turns my stomach." 

The bouncer's negative reaction to the thought of a vampire feeding is a good sign though, perhaps his people aren't responsible for the murders and the subsequent cover ups, or if they were involved the reasons weren't so sinister as hiding the fact they're killing and eating people. Either way, they'll hopefully have information that will help him find out who Nicaise's killers are.

"Then how will you survive?" the man simply asks. 

Laurent thinks about that for a moment. He can endure the hunger, he thinks, no matter how strong it gets. He's got enough willpower to endure anything. _Almost anything_ , a voice curls darkly in the back of his mind. He ignores it. But he's not being asked how he will _endure_ , he's being asked how he will _survive_. The choice of words further adds to the suspicion he's already been mulling over. That vampires can starve to death without blood. 

The heavier the hunger gets, the more he feels it, not just as an overwhelming urge to drink, but as the hollow ache of hunger burning inside his stomach. He wonders if he will actually starve to death, or if he will just feel hungry forever. He doesn't know which is worse.

"I'll figure something out," he tells him. 

"When was the last time you ate?" 

"I had a croissant for brunch," he says.

The man's eyes narrow. "You know what I mean."  
The impatience edges back into his voice, and Laurent thinks he better not try and make another joke.

"Over three months ago," he admits. The first time and the last time, he doesn't say. The day his humanity was stolen from him by a man who had stolen so many other things. The day Auguste died. The day Laurent could have saved his brother, but instead finished him off with fangs to his throat like the monster he is.

"You have maybe two, maybe three months left before you die of starvation, then."

"I'm aware," Laurent says, despite the fact he wasn't aware until now. The information is useful, even if the nature of it is alarming. "I would rather not die again. The first time was such an inconvenience." 

The man seems to contemplate him for a moment, as though taking in every detail about him. "Fine," he speaks eventually. "But if you want to live in Marlas, there are rules." 


	4. Light and Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of blood, bodies and implied sexual abuse

The rules of staying in Marlas are fairly simple, as it turns out. Don't reveal what you are to a human, don't use any of your abilities or powers on a human, and don't under any circumstances injure or kill a human. The second rule in particular piques Laurent's curiosity. He finds himself interested in the existence of people with powers and what the nature of those powers might be.

"Needless to say, the last rule also extends to my people and myself," the bouncers clarifies. 

"I assume if I am to disobey your rules, my life will be forfeit," Laurent says carefully.

"It depends on the circumstances, but most likely you'll face exile or death."

So he can act in self-defense then, presumably, and exile probably means he will be chased out of Marlas, or perhaps Akielos altogether.

"Alright," Laurent says, "Is there anything else that I need to know? Because I informed my date I would be back in five minutes, and I believe I have exceeded my deadline."

"There is one other condition," the bouncer tells him.

"Which is?" He raises an eyebrow.

"A background check from the Hunters. We'll arrange that and contact you soon," he explains.

"You already know my address," Laurent says. "Shall I expect a letter, or will you drop by again?" 

"I'll attach a note to a rock and toss it through your window," he says, sounding as though he can’t quite stop himself from being impertinent.

"You had better not miss then," Laurent replies with a small chuckle. He thinks for a moment of informing the man about Nicaise but then decides against it. The boy hadn't stated whether or not he was comfortable having his existence revealed to the group, and perhaps it is more advantageous to keep the ghosts presence secret for the moment. 

He's done what he came here to do, and he thinks it's been successful, unless the man was lying to him. But his expressions and mannerisms had seemed honest, if a little on guard, and his heartbeat hadn't fluctuated in the way someone's does when they are attempting to be deceptive. But there's no guarantee he can apply the same rules to him as he could an ordinary human, so he'll still have to be careful.

 _Abilities and powers,_ he thinks. He still doesn't know what the bouncer or his companions are or what they're capable of. But they know what he is, and presumably have enough information about vampires to give them the upper hand. The only advantage he has is that they think he is more powerful than he is, and it causes them to be wary of him.

He was able navigate the interaction with enough false confidence that he hasn't given away the fact that he's clueless about the world he's been thrown into. He honestly feels as though he's stepping onto the map of a country he's never heard of before and being told to find his way from one side to the other. If they become aware of his uncertainty, the weakness of his blindspots, they could use it against him.

But the bouncer had assumed Laurent knew what he was doing, and spoke to him as though he was aware of how things were supposed to operate, even going as far as to give away seemingly valuable information as though it was something Laurent should already have. All in all he's managed to forge the beginnings of what he hopes may flourish into some sort of alliance as well as gather enough information to start placing markers on his map.

The only cause for concern he has is these so called 'Hunters' doing a background check on him. He can assume Hunters are perhaps a group in league with or an extension of those running Marlas, and that they communicate and keep tabs on activities involving other non-humans. It would make sense, perhaps to reign in or eliminate trouble makers whose actions could threaten to reveal their existence to the world. 

Whoever they are, he hopes they won’t find anything that will lead them to think he's a danger to society. He's been a vampire for a little over three months, and during that time, aside from the day he got turned, he's not been involved in any incidents. But if they are able to identify him and dig up information on his background as a human, which is something he assumes they are more than capable of considering their connections to the police, they'll find out from his date of birth that he hasn't been a vampire for very long. And they may become suspicious over the circumstances of Auguste's death and his involvement in that. 

But uncle had 's _o kindly'_ done him a favour, uncle had said he would make sure that the truth would never come out. And then somehow Auguste's death was reported as an accident. He feels a twist in his chest like a knife to the heart, and a bitter feeling pulls on the inside of his ribs. 

He wonders, briefly, if these hunters have any information on his uncle. His uncle, who crawled back from his place in hell as an undead monster and tore his life to shreds for the second time. His uncle who hurt him over and over and called it love.

He forces the thought to the back of his mind. Uncle, and every sinister connotation that monster encompasses is not something he can deal with right now. All of that is best tucked away into the darkest corners of his memory where he can only pick at it when he wants to bleed.

"The hunters might be able to help with finding an alternative blood supply," the man offers helpfully, dragging Laurent from thr dark pit of his thoughts. There is something almost kind in his voice that makes Laurent realise he must have let some emotion show on his face. 

An expression of pain that was mistaken for him quelling his hunger, perhaps?

He takes no more than a second to gather himself, ignoring the growing hole in his chest and the pain that comes with being reminded of the past, before he casually wanders past the bouncer. "I do hope so," is all he says before heading back inside.

Instantly he laments the unfair trade of fresh, cool night air for a too loud, too clammy atmosphere, heavy with the scent of humanity that simultaneously disgusts him and pulls at the edges of his hunger. 

He quickly reaches the booth, and Torveld greets him with a wide smile. Laurent is acutely aware of the man's pulse increasing in a flutter beneath his skin. "Are you feeling any better?" he asks. Laurent smiles back, faintly. "My head still hurts," he says. It was the excuse he had used earlier to slip outside alone.

From the corner of his eye he sees the man he was talking to has come back inside and is now seemingly conferring with the other bouncer. The lights are flashing neon green, and it seems almost toxic, too intense, too bright. He closes his eyes, makes a show of wincing as though he's in pain, and the incessant flashing leaves vague imprints on the backs of his eyelids.

The music feels heavy in his ears, pulsing like a heartbeat, and he feels it like irritation in his bones. The smell of humanity, the taste in the air, fills his stomach with an ache so heavy he feels as though he might tremble. 

"We don't have to stay," Torveld says. Laurent's eyes snap open, his vision slightly blurred, and he feels as though he's swaying in his seat. There's a pang of guilt when his eyes are finally able to focus on Torveld's expression of gentle concern. Laurent only nods. "I'm sorry," he tells him. Torveld offers him a reassuring smile, and touches his hand across the table. Laurent feels his body go stiff at the touch, despite how light and unassuming it is, and tries to relax. He's not in any danger, he reminds himself. 

"It's fine. Are you unwell?" he asks. "Your hand feels cold."

"I just have a sore head," Laurent tells him. "Nothing to be concerned about." 

Torveld looks unconvinced, but offers him a kind smile anyway. "I'll walk you home then," he says.

  
  


Once he's back at the apartment, he gives Nicaise a quick rundown of the information he's gathered, and tells him they might be able to find leads by integrating themselves into the group. Nicaise had been aware of what he was doing before he left, of course. Laurent had promised him that everything he did involving the case would be run by the ghost beforehand, and if he wasn't okay with anything it simply wouldn't happen.

"So you think the weirdos at the night club have something to do with my murder?" he asks. 

"I'm sure they're involved, I'm just not sure how deeply," he explains. "I believe at the very least, they will have some information, and at most, they were directly involved with the botched investigation and know who is responsible."

"You mean they let my killers get away?" he asks, his voice cold. "Why?" 

"I don't know that for sure. It's possible the killers weren't human, and upon realising that they had Nikandros Kyroi use his position to manipulate the investigation, causing it to collapse so that humanity wouldn't discover the existence of monsters. That's the most probable scenario in any case. But I require more information to confirm my suspicions." 

He thinks it's possible they may have planned to conduct their own investigation, to catch the killers and inflicted their own punishment - exile or death - for breaking the rules of Marlas, but if that had happened, its highly likely the killers got away. Why else would Nicaise still be here? Surely the fact his killers hadn't been brought to justice was what tethered him to this world. Didn't ghosts need unfinished business in order to stay chained to the mortal realm? Or was that just dramatic nonsense from fantasy books? Maybe the boy is just too stubborn to leave.

"What do you think?" Laurent asks him.

Nicaise frowns at him, seemingly frustrated. "I think whoever killed me is still out there, and if a whole group of idiots couldn't find them, how is one idiot supposed to do it?" 

"Your insight is as helpful as always. I'm going for a bath."

"Had fun at the club with Torveld then?" the boy asks. "I'm surprised you're not back at his place."

"I didn't go to that wretched hellhole so that I could get intoxicated and fool around with a man twice my age. I went so that I could begin building the foundations for a case that will hopefully end in the prosecution of the people who killed you."

"Alright," the boy says with an eye roll. "How is it that the first vampire I ever meet is the most boring undead prick on the planet?"

"And why is it that first ghost I ever meet is the most insufferable little shit on the planet?" Laurent says, but he keeps his voice light, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  
  
  


The next couple of days go by uneventfully, and Laurent intermittently continues his research online but is unable to uncover any information he doesn't already have about the murders that took place eight months ago. There are a few obscure conspiracy theories that he stumbles upon after digging too deeply, though. Most find an illogical way to pinpoint the blame on the Veretian government, and one claims it was a series of alien abductions. 

Laurent gives up at that point, and decides to spend some time scouring the local library for any books on mythology, fantasy creatures and mysterious or unexplained events.

He's aware most of it will contain merely folk lore and legends, and perhaps no information of any real value or substance. But fairy tales had to originate from somewhere, and now that he knows things of fantasy are real, he can't help but think that all of the stories have some element of truth behind them, buried between the lines.

Maybe dragons once breathed fire into the skies and burned villages to the ground, maybe fairies once danced among the flowers in the forest and played cruel tricks on lost children and maybe mermaids once swam gracefully in every corner of the seas and lured people to a cold death in the darkness of the ocean. But where are they all now? Wiped away by the passage of time, only to be remembered as legends and stories? Or hiding, like the 'people' of Crescent Moon? 

Speaking of Crescent Moon, he still hasn't been contacted after two days, nor has he noticed any sign of their people lingering around his building. He's feeling particularly restless after yet another day of dead ends and useless information, with no contact from his only potential lead, and so finds himself walking the streets at around three in the morning with the desire for a change of scenery and a break from trying to untangle his endless web of thoughts.

The world is painted in deep blue shadows and soft silver moonlight, silent and still as the bottom of a lake, and he feels more awake now that the rest of the city quietly sleeps.

His vague memory of Marlas doesn't quite add up to the current layout of the city, but that's because as a child he was only interested in exploring the famous ruins with Auguste, older than the city itself, and looking at the art and history museums with his parents. And he supposes, over time things change, the world gradually evolves over the past and quietly buries its remains.

He passes through some twisting roads, almost like a labyrinth between tall, modern looking buildings tightly packed together, and then over an arched stone bridge so old the walkway is still cobbled. A long, wide river passes lazily beneath his feet, and the moon's fractured reflection is caught inside its silver ripples.

He eventually finds himself wandering through a large open park area, following a narrow dirt path that winds through grass scattered with tiny wild flowers, and there's a vague familiarity about it all. The road leads to a woodland area ahead, tall trees clustered together in a veil against the night, and he thinks somewhere among the trees, tangled in vines and crumbling beyond repair, are the ruins in which he play fought Auguste one summer, a lifetime ago.

Laurent feels something catch in the back of his throat, and his veins suddenly feel empty. He thinks of Auguste, swinging a branch around like a sword, falling into the grass with dirt and laughter on his face. He thinks of Auguste lying dead on the kitchen floor, still and pale, neat little rivers of red running between the gaps in the tiles. He thinks of Uncle, casting a shadow over his brother's body, and he thinks of the way the blood had burned the back of his throat as it went down, landing like an iron weight in his stomach.

He doesn't know when his legs give way beneath him, only that suddenly he's on the grass, little blue flowers crushed between his fingers, and that he feels as though he's shaking because he can't breathe through the grief, the terror.

Uncle had stripped Laurent of his humanity, peeled it from his bones and replaced it with this monstrosity he calls a body. And Auguste had died because of it. He feels as though his insides are pouring out, and wraps his arms around himself as though somehow he can hold everything in place. It slips through the cracks anyway, like blood between his fingers.

He imagines in a couple of hours, the sun will start bleeding sunrise into the sky, and the early birds of Marlas will begin walking this path, but for now he is alone, kneeling in the grass and feeling as though he might unravel among the flowers.

It takes him only minutes to pull himself back together, to grab onto every loose end that's escaping and push it all back inside. He's had practice, he's used to this, burying everything so deep inside himself that he no longer knows how to let it out.

Despite the burning behind his eyes, he doesn't let himself cry, and as the trembling of his nerves gradually stops, he slowly pushes himself to his feet, grateful there is no one around to see him.

At least, until he senses a presence, almost like an instinct pressing against his skin, the subtle trace of something he can't quite identify, telling him that he's being watched. He recognises it moments later as one of the men from Crescent Moon. That same feeling, writhing like terror in his gut.

The muscles of his legs twitch with the desire to flee, but instead he spins around to see a figure silhouetted in the night, watching him from a dozen or so meters away. He blinks, and the shadows of a vaguely familiar face swim into view. A face he has only seen staring back at him from a computer screen until now.

Nikandros Kyroi looks as serious in person as he did in the picture, the sharp lines of his face pulled into focus by the scowl crossing his features. Laurent glares right back at him, pushing down the instinctual fear that's simmering in the pit of his stomach. He hopes this is the communication he has been waiting two days for, but it's odd that he's being approached on an empty path in the early hours of the morning when no one else is around, a couple of miles from his apartment in the city center.

"Do you require something of me?" he asks, brows raising a fraction.

"Wednesday at two thirty in the afternoon," the man states, drily. "Someone will come and collect you."

"Brilliant," Laurent says. "Will that be all? Can I continue my walk in peace now?" Laurent doesn't like Nikandros' tone of voice or his demeanor, and perhaps that's why the sharpness in his voice so obviously comes through. Or perhaps it's the fact he despises the fear he feels, an instinct running through him like cold water in his blood. Why should he fear them, whatever these people are? And why does his body refuse to quell that fear when he's able to carefully press down on every other instinct and reaction? Is this what it means to no longer be human?

Nikandros' eyes narrow on him, and Laurent can see the distaste spread cross his features like dark paint. "I don't trust you," the man says. "You might have fooled Damianos with your pretty face and your story of seeking safety, of longer wanting to feed on humans, but we both know that's bullshit. You're probably on the hunt right now, trying to kill discreetly on the outskirts of the city." 

Of course. Nikandros is - or was - a detective. He's going to find suspicion in everything Laurent does, he's going to pick apart and analyse all of his habits and behaviors. The people of Marlas aren't too keen on vampires, he's noticed. The bartender who had served him seemed wary, almost afraid, and the bouncer - Damianos, he realises - was guarded around him, and had also made the assumption that he might try and use Marlas as a feeding ground.

He wonders if this is generally the attitude toward his kind among non-human society, or if it's just a local disposition. If vampires are truly able to starve to death through lack of blood, perhaps that does make them - Laurent - quite dangerous. A starving man, in the desperation of his hunger, might do anything to eat. But if his only choice of food is human blood, then his options are sorely limited to injuring or murdering someone.

"I am simply exploring the city, because there is not much else to do when you do not sleep at night," Laurent says. "I don't appreciate your accusations, and I don’t appreciate being followed around."

"I'm watching you," Nikandros tells him, the edge of his voice sharp. "One tiny whiff of shit in this city, one missing person, one body, one reason for me to suspect you, I'll come for your head myself. Do you understand?" 

Laurent raises his chin defiantly, and he feels that ice pour through him before he can stop it. “Watch me, then. But please, do so from a distance. I find your presence...distasteful." he purposefully wrinkles his nose in disgust, cold eyes meeting Nikandros'. It seems Laurent isn't able to keep his sharp edges smoothed out of the way in the face of insults and threats. He can feel the tension between them, bright and burning like the sparks between the clashing of blades.

Nikandros' scowl only deepens. "I'll be waiting," he says. "With a stake in one hand and a Veretian cross in the other." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. The Old and the New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for referenced child sexual abuse, reference to parental death, disease, gun violence.
> 
> so sorry I haven't updated in a while, I was moving house and dealing with an enormous amount of stress regarding that. starting from now I'll try and upload once again on a monthly schedule.

Laurent's conversation with Nikandros had left him internally unsettled, an uneasy feeling clawing inside his chest, but as he had passed the man on the pathway with confident strides, heading back in the direction he had come from, he made sure none of the discord he felt was displayed on his face, and he had offered him a small, sharp edged smile. "You will be waiting for the rest of your life, then," he had told him, sounding confident in those words despite the lingering fog of doubt crawling in the back of his mind.

Nikandros hadn't followed him, and once he thinks he's put enough distance between them, the panic he'd been forcing down seems to rise through his chest like cold water. "Calm down," he quietly tells himself, watching the release of his breathe, pale and faint, into the cold night.

He had held his own throughout the conversation, and is sure he didn't let any signs of fear or uncertainty seep into his voice or his body language, but now he wonders how that was even possible, as his body still trembles and he feels fear stir inside his blood. It takes a few minutes of shaky breathing, but the sensation gradually subsides, the release of tension in his chest allowing him to breathe once more as stability returns to his limb.

He had intended to head back to the city centre and take the quickest route to his apartment, but instead he decides to explore a little more of the outskirts of Marlas and take a longer path back. There's no real logical or strategic reason for it, he just simply feels as though scurrying off as quickly as he can would be similar to admitting that he's afraid of Nikandros, of Marlas. Or maybe it's because of some sort of petty spite that resides within him.

It's ridiculous, he thinks, and yet he does it anyway, passing through a sparse woodland area where trees seem to cling to one and other like old friends, around a large lake that holds the night sky and all of the stars beneath its still surface, over rolling hills that give him a view of the city skyline, thousands of glowing lights unfolding like paper lanterns against the horizon.  
  
The light of dawn is already creeping up in streaks of red, and after about an hour of wandering around Laurent finds himself staring at a wrought iron fence, long narrow bars lining the view before him. Behind it he can make out carved stone blocks, casting long, drawn out shadows where they are scattered in the grass. _A graveyard?_ He thinks. He knows by this point he should just turn back, but instead he finds his eyes scanning the fence, looking for an entrance, and finds it in the form of a tall, open gate, arch shaped and intricate.

The grass is painted red in the early morning light, neatly trimmed as though it was only cut a day or two ago, and Laurent finds himself wandering the stone pathway as the night sky bleeds away to the sunrise.

A small church with a tall, narrow spire and beautifully painted arch windows sits at the far end of the pathway, and the over elaborate and decorative design is reminiscent of old Veretian architecture, he realises. Considering the history of the region, which Vere lost in a war to Akielos a couple of centuries ago, it entirely makes sense to find an old Veretian church on the outskirts of a major city. And yet this small, unexpected reminder of home, of the past, has Laurent's barely moving heart suddenly tugging in his chest with a deep, sorrowful ache.

He decides then that its time to return to the city, and begins following the path again, past the lines of gravestones with the names of the dead etched solemnly onto the surface. Since he's determined to look ahead and not focus on his surroundings, it's only by chance, a blur in his peripheral, that he sees a scattering of small dark flowers blooming in the grass around one of the graves, and quickly he realises it's odd for two reasons. The flowers are unnaturally concentrated to one area, and like the rest of the graveyard, the surrounding grass looks freshly cut.

Laurent admittedly isn't an expert on horticulture, but he doesn't think there is any flower that can grow that quickly, and he's never seen black flowers like this before. They're formed in large clusters of tiny little petals, reminiscent of the baby's breathe plant, but completely black as though dipped in ink. They seem to cling to the headstone itself, which is dated for almost a century ago, and then span around it, blooming sparsely for a few feet, but no further. It's strange, he thinks, but then again, Marlas is a strange city with an underground community of monsters. It's probably not so out of place here. 

He's curious, but not enough to begin a deep dive into a well of research when he's already got something much more important to focus on, different hurdles to overcome. This is something that can be tucked away for later, if it's anything at all.

He's about to turn and leave when he hears the resounding groan of the gate's metal hinges, screeching like a beast in the night. He pushes down on the jolt of panic that seems to try and force its way up his spine, and turns, his gaze sliding over to the person by the gate. Dark wide eyes meet his, as shocked to see him there as he is to see them.

He recognises the man as the bartender at Crescent Moon, who had served him and Torveld their glasses of wine with barely concealed panic in his eyes. That panic is there now, as his eyes widen in recognition, and he takes a slow, almost unconscious step away from Laurent. Laurent barely senses anything from his presence, a slight heaviness in the air perhaps, and he didn't hear the man's approach at all. Some instinct deep inside him curls through his mind, a feeling that he's looking at something beneath him, something trying to encroach on his territory. Something he should crush. Laurent doesn't know exactly where the idea manifests from, and he ignores it, ignores the rush of heat in his blood and the feeling seeping into his body.

Moment's later, he hears a second set of footsteps, and from the dark another man appears behind the first. This one he doesn't recognise. He's fairly tall, with a scruffy mess of sandy brown hair, hands shoved into his pockets as he wanders toward them. "Oi, Pallas, what's-" he starts asking, then cuts himself off as he sees Laurent. Something dark flashes behind his eyes, and he stands almost protectively in front of the bartender, whose name is Pallas, Laurent assumes, although he can't recall seeing a name tag anywhere on his uniform before.

"By the sins of the seven," he utters words almost like a prayer, although it doesn't sound like a phrase one would typically direct toward a God. "What do you want, vampire?" he asks.

Laurent narrows his eyes into a glare of his own. There's an ominous presence that seems to cling to the man, something that makes Laurent uncomfortable, like he's looking at something that shouldn't exist in the space that it does. He can't quite place the feeling, and he's getting frustrated at how little he understands of his own instincts now that he's become a vampire.

"Did you lose someone?" the question is unexpected, blurted from the dark haired man before Laurent can speak. It causes Laurent's mind to stutter to a temporary halt. _I have lost everyone_ , he thinks, and the reminder feels like darkness, come to swallow him whole. He feels the ache inside him as it winds up his body, tries to find its way onto his face, and he forces his expression to remain cold, uncaring.

The man is watching him with wide eyes, almost expectant beneath the slight tremble of fear. Laurent stares at the space between them, where his brow furrows, because he doesn't want to meet that gaze but doesn't want to look away. "I have lost everyone," he echoes his initial thought, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. 

A moment of silence, and then, "Does it ever stop hurting?" 

"No," he says after a second of contemplation.

He thinks of his parents, the illness that ravaged his mother for years until she was skin and bone on her deathbed and the sudden, violent end his father met, a stray bullet to the throat while he was on a hunting trip with Auguste. He feels only the slightest pang, the ache faded and dull. The memories are like scabs on his skin, only bleeding when they are picked, only painful when he presses on them. He thinks of Auguste, a deep cut so fresh it's still bleeding, and the pain is so intense he feels as though his body has been hollowed out. His legs feel weak, and he turns his face away from the couple before they see it on his face, the tremble in his lip, the raw, stripped down grief in his eyes. He knows that expression well, he has spent many long hours staring at himself in the mirror and willing it to go away.

"It only becomes more bearable as time passes," he says, forcing his voice to be steady. He doesn't think the pain of losing Auguste will ever become bearable though. He thinks its something he will always carry, a cut that will always bleed, a scar that will never heal. Guilt festers like rot inside his chest, and he feels sick with it. "Now, if you will excuse me," he says, watching the red flicker of dawn spill into the sky. "I would like to return home before the sun rises. The light doesn't agree with me at all." 

He expects them to try and stop him from leaving, but they only watch him warily as he passes by them and back through the gate. He hears them speak in hushed tones once he's a fair distance away, and spends a second trying to pick up on what they're saying, but can't quite make out any of the words. He doesn't want to risk doubling back to eavesdrop, although he's fairly sure he could do it with no trouble under normal circumstances, it's not worth the risk of getting caught when he doesn't know exactly what he's up against. If they have heightened senses or abilities he's unaware of, and they catch him listening in, it will only serve to prove that he can't be trusted, and undo all of the progress he's made so far.

When Laurent arrives back at the apartment building, the early morning sunlight is already prickling his skin, and he has to blink the irritation from his eyes. As he unlocks the front door and pushes it open, he sees a familiar figure sat at the bottom of the stairs, knees curled into his chest and dark curls gleaming in the lobby lights. 

"You were gone forever, asshole," the ghost says, rising to his feet with a scowl on his face. 

"I've had contact from the group," Laurent tells him, keeping his voice low. It's just before six in the morning, its possible some of his neighbours are awake, and while the walls in this building are fairly thick, he doesn't want to risk being heard saying something suspicious. 

"What did they say?" Nicaise asks, the scowl slipping from his features. 

"Wednesday," Laurent tells him, right as he hears the rattle of a door being unlocked down the hallway. In an instant, he pulls his phone from his pocket and flicks it to his ear. If whoever comes out heard him speak, it's better to look like he's not talking to himself. The door swings open, and with a glance Laurent realises it's Torveld. The man stops and blinks, surprised to see Laurent lingering at the bottom of the stairway first thing in the morning.

"Morning," he says, his voice a little slow with hesitation. He's dressed in a nice shirt and slacks, with a thin coat thrown over his ensemble, so Laurent can only assume he's going to work. Not that he knows what Torveld does. It never came up on their "date." 

Laurent waves a hand at him, and then subtly gestures to his phone, hoping it's a convincing enough display to fool the man into thinking he's actually in a call.

"It's your sugar daddy," Nicaise says, peering at the older man. Laurent thinks he has more money stashed in his savings than Torveld's ever had in his life, but he can't say that, and he doesn't want to think about it.

"It's just my neighbour," Laurent says in response. 

"Your horny neighbour," Nicaise says, as though correcting him as he wanders up to Torveld and waves a hand in his face. "You know I saw him watching-"

"Okay, that's fine. Bye," Laurent says, cutting the boy off. At the same time he 'hangs up' his phone and slips it back into his pocket. He doesn't want to know what Nicaise caught his purportedly horny neighbour doing in his spare time.

Nicaise looks back at him with a glare, but for once remains silent. 

"Sorry. Good morning," Laurent says to Torveld, ignoring Nicaise who keeps trying - and failing- to catch the man's attention.

"Boyfriend?" Torveld asks, with a rueful smile. It takes Laurent a moment to process that he's referring to the phone call. 

"No, it was my-" he almost says brother by default, but the word feels raw and heavy, a painful weight in the back of his throat, even more so when he thinks of it on his lips. "Cousin," he settles for, hoping that his voice isn't noticeably unsteady. 

"Ah," Torveld's gaze softens with what looks like relief, and Laurent feels a pang of guilt. Laurent has no intentions of taking their relationship any further beyond friendly neighbours. Perhaps he should have just lied and said yes, it was his boyfriend, to make sure Torveld doesn't have hopes for a future that will never be. But his life is already tangled in enough lies as it is, saying he suddenly has a boyfriend will just raise suspicion when he's already given Torveld the impression he's single.

"You look tired," the man observes, gaze on Laurent's face. "Have you slept?" 

Laurent shakes his head. "I couldn't, so I went for a walk. I'm going to try and nap now," he explains, yet another lie. He won't be able to sleep for another six hours or so, and he feels wide awake and somewhat energetic, despite the fact he appears tired. He puts a little effort into making his movements seem sluggish, his voice drowsy.

"You know I'm a doctor, Laurent?" Torveld says suddenly, his expression shifting into seriousness. Laurent shakes his head, trying to push away the worry that's forming in the back of his mind. He hadn't known that, and silently he curses himself for the oversight. He can feel Torveld's eyes on him, studying him intently as he would a patient. He can tell something is wrong with Laurent, and Laurent regrets not attempting to hide it better. Even a little make up would have concealed the dark circles and paleness on his skin, but he didn't think he needed to go that far.

But just because he's a doctor, doesn't mean he's noticed that Laurent is barely alive, and that his body doesn't function as an ordinary, living, breathing human's should. There are plenty of health conditions that can explain looking pale and tired.

"I pay more attention than you think," he continues, and Laurent feels an uneasiness slide into his stomach. In his head, he begins going over medical conditions that can explain the state of his body, or in the very least his pale appearance and the almost perpetual tiredness on his face. Iron deficiency Anaemia is the most obvious one, since he technically has most of the symptoms in some form or another, and can easily fake the ones he doesn't have if need be. Perhaps if he claims he's an insomniac too, that will explain everything enough to satisfy Torveld. And if he feels the man's suspicions are still raised, he can always try and be charming, although that's a last resort because he doesn't enjoy the idea of playing on Torveld's obvious attraction to him to enforce his lies, even if it is for a good reason.

He's already educated enough to convincingly lie to most people about his "poor health" but he's not fully confident that will hold up against a qualified doctor.

"If you're unwell, I can help," Torveld offers with a kind smile. "I don't want to make assumptions, but are you anaemic?" 

Laurent nods, stiffly, watching Torveld's body language for any signs of doubt Of course a doctor arrived to that conclusion. 

For some reason, Torveld looks relieved. "I was worried it was something worse, but anaemia is easy to manage in most cases," he says with a smile. "You could come with me right now and register at my clinic. If you already have a diagnoses and prescriptions, we can transfer all of your data and get you any medication you need," he explains.   
  
"He wants to play Doctor with you," Nicaise says with a grin. "Maybe you should let him." 

Laurent shakes his head slightly. "I'm fine," he says to Torveld. Registering at a clinic will more than likely mean a psychical check up, and if a doctor gets a stethoscope anywhere near his chest, it's going to giveaway the fact that he's dead. He's counted his heartbeats. Six a minute, roughly. At least ten times less than the average resting heart rate. He doesn't think there's a medical condition on the planet that could explain that away. 

When the man's expression looks unconvinced, Laurent elaborates, spinning the lie out easily. "Arrangements are being made. I haven't taken my medication in a couple of days on account of the fact I'm running low, but I should have access to more soon. Things got a little chaotic during the move from Vere, that's all." 

Torveld frowns. "You could make yourself really unwell if you stop even for a short amount of time, Laurent," Torveld tells him, and Laurent can hear the serious authority that comes with being a doctor, mixed with the concern and compassion of taking care of his patients in his voice. 

He nods, slowly. "I know. I'll be fine. I promise it's currently being sorted out, please don't worry about me." he says, desperately trying to steer the talk away from any route that could potentially lead to him having a medical check up.

"Okay," he says with a somewhat satisfied smile. "I have to go to work now or I might end up being late."

Laurent moves back into the stairwell to give Torveld space to squeeze by in the narrow hallway. The man stops for a moment by the entrance door, before turning back to look at Laurent. "Please take care of yourself," he says. There's kindness in his hesitant smile, but it doesn't hide the worry in his eyes.

"Don't doctors make shitloads of money?" Nicaise asks, as the door swings shut behind Torveld. 

"Six figures, usually" Laurent tells him. 

"Sugar daddy!" Nicaise says merrily. "Think of all the nice things he could buy you, and all you would have to do in return is fuck him." 

Six figures is a few less than Laurent's current net worth, but there's not really much point in mentioning that. "And what happens when he notices my entire body is cold and my heartbeat is impossibly slow?" Laurent asks as he begins ascending the stairs.

Nicaise is on his heels. "He's not going to be thinking of that with his cock-"

"You really are vulgar for a twelve year old," Laurent snaps, cutting him off. And then he lowers his voice. "It's already dangerous for me to connect with humans. But he's a doctor, Nicaise. He's far more perceptive and knowledgeable about health than other people. It's out of the question." 

"I'm fourteen, asshole," the boy snaps back. Laurent isn't looking at him, but he can picture the way his eyes roll as a distasteful frown forms on his face so clearly. It's an expression he's growing very used to when dealing with the ghost. "And you're so fucking boring. Live a little."

"Ah yes, let me just expose the existence of vampires and watch the subsequent collapse of society all in the name of a mediocre fuck. Because that would be infinitely more entertaining," he says, as he reaches the second floor and turns the corner that leads to his door. "I can't wait to see how the human race in all of their boundless wisdom manages to deal with-" 

Laurent stop shorts as he realises, just a moment too late that someone else is standing in the hallway before him. His blood turns to ice, and he feels as though the ground is unsteady beneath his feat. He smells them, a dim trace of humanity buzzing like light in the air at the same time he sees them standing right outside his door, their back to him, clad in dark clothing with a hood covering their hair. Something heavy pushes inside his stomach, and a cold, relentless terror chains him in place. 

"Laurent," the familiar voice is more unsteady than he's ever heard it before. "You're alive." 

"Jord?" his hesitation makes it sound more like a question than it really is. He already knows that voice, almost as familiar as his own. Auguste's best friend, and one of Laurent's only friends. Hazy memories fill his mind, the sounds of summer at the beach, warm and bright, Auguste and Jord splashing in the sea while Laurent watches them from the shore. The feel of river water rushing, a cold and insistent tug around his ankles, as Jord takes his hand and guides him across the stream. The helplessness as he sobs in Jord's arms, barely able to breathe through the terror after his uncle is led away in handcuffs for what he did to Laurent.

His mind snaps back to the present, and he has so many questions, and not enough time to think about asking any of them before the man turns to face him, and then strides forward, closing the distance between them. He presses his hand to Laurent's face, as though to make sure he's actually real. It's warm, and the heat pulses through the cold skin of Laurent's cheek. It takes him a second to realise the pulse is the racing of Jord's heartbeat.

His mind seems to come to a sudden, violent halt, all of the gears in his head jamming in place. _He'll find out_ , is the only thought he can form. _He'll find out what I am._ It's instinctive to then jerk away from his touch, backing ever so slightly toward the stairwell.

"You're alive," he repeats, brown eyes trembling with disbelief. "You're...cold." 

"Leave," Laurent says. His voice is steady, icy, but he can feel the strain in the back of his throat as he speaks.

Jord ignores him, and instead reaches a hand out to touch Laurent's face once more. Laurent moves to bat it away, but Jord's reactions are surprisingly fast, and he grabs Laurent's wrist, fingers gripping it tightly. His thumb presses firmly into Laurent's pulse point, even as Laurent desperately tries to tug his arm away. 

He sees the moment Jord realises his pulse isn't normal, watches his expression shift with a range of emotions between unnaturally slow heartbeats, before finally settling on something pained. 

"I'm sorry," he says slowly, his voice tense. "I couldn't protect you, either."


	6. The Past and the Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for death, trauma, referenced CSA, dead parents...uh...blood. yeah a lot of stuff. 
> 
> sorry I haven't updated in a half a year I rewrote this chapter to death and got so burned out on trying to get the right kind of vibe I gave up on this fic for some time but I suddenly had an idea about some things a few weeks ago regarding this story so I promised myself I would start working on it and update before Christmas so here we are.

Laurent's mouth feels dry, his throat numb, as he processes those words, trying to make sense of them in his head and coming up empty because he can't think through the panic, the confusion. Does Jord know what he is? How does he know? He stares at the man as though with his gaze alone he can pry out all of the answers to the countless questions clogging his mind, and Jord stares back, letting the words hang between them in the air.

"Can I come inside?" Jord asks after a moment, glancing nervously around the silent corridor. His hands drop to his side. "We can talk. I can help you, Laurent."  
  
Laurent shakes his head. He feels as though his mind is filled with static, eating away at all of his thoughts. "I can't..." he begins, but his voice stumbles, words getting twisted in the back of his mouth. "How can you help me? When I - Gods, I'm -"

"It's okay," Jord says. "Take a moment."

"What the fuck is going on?" Nicaise demands, his voice shrill, and it's then Laurent seems to fall back into his senses, and his mind begins moving again, a slow stumble over thoughts and questions until eventually he feels as though he can speak without his voice breaking in his throat. He nods slowly, takes a deep breathe. "Okay," he says. "We can talk inside."

He barely remembers fumbling the keys in the lock, but suddenly they're stepping into the flat and distantly he hears Nicaise protesting, even as Jord carefully shuts the door behind him and Laurent ushers the man into the living area. Belatedly he realises that Jord hasn't reacted to Nicaise's presence at all. He can't see or hear the ghost. Does that mean's he's human? He smells human, Laurent thinks, and then feels like a monster for knowing that.

Laurent sinks into the sofa, a weakness pulling at his knees, but Jord stands stiff and rigid by the arm of the chair, as Nicaise settles on the counter top, eyes narrowed on Jord. "I don't trust him," the boy says harshly, before using his ghostly powers to make himself scarce. There's a cold chill in the air for a moment, and Jord shivers with it as Laurent watches him in silence.

It's almost startling how much Jord has changed now that Laurent properly looks at him. In his memories, Jord had always been well kept, hair closely cropped and consistently neat, face always clean shaven and smooth, shoulders straight and head held high. He had always cut a strong figure of someone dedicated and serious.

Now there's a tiredness in his stare, bordering exhaustion, dark crescents shadow his eyes and his expression is weary. The stubble patches on his jawline indicate that he hasn't shaved for about a week, and his hair is slightly longer, mussed up as though he's been running his hands through it obsessively. 

He thought I was dead, Laurent thinks, and realises Jord wasn't just grieving Auguste, Jord was grieving him too. His two closest friends, suddenly taken from him. No wonder he looks as though he's falling apart, like he can't even be bothered to hold himself together. A sharp pang of guilt lodges itself in Laurent's chest, and he reels in all of his emotions, forcing the turmoil in his mind to be still for a while even as he feels it pushing at the edges of his self control. He smiles warmly at his friend, hoping the expression doesn't waver. "Sit," he tells him, gently patting the sofa next to him. "I can make you a cup of coffee, then we can talk," he says. 

It's with a hot mug of strong coffee cradled between his fingers that Jord finally speaks. "I looked for you, you know," he says. "Auguste was dead and you just...vanished. I didn't give up on you. I knew you were alive."

"I don't think alive is the word I would use, personally," Laurent tells him. "And I'm not exactly dead, either. I am somewhere inbetween, am I not?" 

Jord nods. "Undead, some would say."

"How do you know what I am, Jord?" he asks. 

"I'm part of an Organisation," Jord says. "The Hunter Alliance. A mix of humans and non humans, working together to maintain peace and keep the existence of the supernatural a secret."

Laurent nods slowly, taking this information in. His mind skates over his memories of Jord, trying to gather clues that he was anything other than an ordinary man and coming up empty. Jord was Auguste's work colleague and best friend, that's all. 

"Did Auguste know about any of this?" he asks. 

Slowly Jord nods, and Laurent feels something almost painful stirring in his chest. He had thought there were no secrets between him and Auguste, that they had told eachother everything. "He never told me," Laurent says. "Why didn't he tell me?" 

"It's...complicated," his gaze flicks off to the side. He's silent for a moment, seeming to arrange his thoughts into words, and Laurent feels time stretch out, unbearably slow, before Jord speaks again. "My family are Hunters. From the moment I was born it was what I was supposed to do, what I trained for, but I...it's not just my family, Laurent." Jord's eyes find their way back to his, dark and serious. "Yours were too," he says. 

Laurent feels the word 'impossible' slide from the back of his mouth to the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say it because he realises so many impossible things have happened to him recently that the word has lost all meaning. Instead he searches Jord's gaze for any sign this is a game, a lie, anything but true. The man's expression is sincere, if a little wary, and now as he begins putting all the pieces together in this new puzzle he realises that what Jord is saying fits in perfectly.

His childhood had certainly been a little unorthodox, but it had all felt so normal to him at the time he hadn't really questioned it. From an early age he had been taught how to defend himself, taking lessons with a personal trainer. "Our family is very wealthy," his father had told him. "Someone may try and invade our home, or kidnap you for ransom money. You must know how to fight back." 

When he was a little older he was taught how to use a sword, just the basics of swordplay, although he had enjoyed it so much he practiced a lot on his own, or with Auguste. His brother had told him it was family tradition, passed down from the ages of war and bloodshed of centuries past, when their family had been nobility and knights that served the royalty of Vere. And he remembers in passing his father mentioning that he could learn how to shoot a gun when he was fifteen. Of course, his father had died before Laurent turned fifteen years old.

There was a lot of business trips too, his parents rarely home, but that was the way it had been for as long as he could remember. They were always coming and going, never staying for more than a week at a time. Auguste started going on some of those trips when he was in his late teens, but he was never gone as much as his parents. The long absences didn't start until after they died...Laurent had never thought much of it before, but now his mind is racing over every possibility. What if they had been lying about the nature of their trips? What if they had spent his childhood preparing him to fight monsters he didn't even know existed? 

"And I was just kept in the dark?" he finally asks. 

"You were meant to be told the truth at sixteen," Jord says. "But after your parents died and... everything that happened after," he hesitates a little on the words, and Laurent knows he's referring to his uncle's abuse. "Anyway, Auguste decided he didn't want this life for you. He said it was too dangerous. It's not easy, and you had suffered enough. He wanted you to be safe, happy. To be normal." 

"Yes, and that worked out just perfectly, didn't it?" Laurent says, coldly. 

"He was trying to protect you. He thought-"

"Protect me?" Laurent cuts him off, feels that icy anger crawl through his blood, slowly, inevitably. "Maybe knowledge of what's really out there would have protected me," he feels his voice rising. "Maybe if I had known that monsters were real, if I had known how to fight them, he would still-" his voice chokes off, crushed inside his throat.

Laurent had frozen when he saw uncle. The panic had been instant, screaming against the inside of his skin, working its way through his body like cold water. The fear had chilled him to his bones, and then somehow deeper. He doubts he could have fought off his uncle even if he had known about vampires, known how to fight them, because it was his uncle. He would he have joined Auguste, another body on the kitchen floor, bleeding out on the tiles. Was that what Auguste wanted to protect him from?

Laurent shakes his head, takes a moment to calm down. There's a complex and confusing bundle of feelings tangled up inside him, and he's aware that he's lashing out. Because Auguste had kept something this big from him, perhaps, but also because he feels the weight of his brother's death like a rock against his chest. "Is there anything else I need to know?" he asks, voice strained.

Jord hesitates a moment. "Your parents..." he says. 

Laurent looks at him, and a sudden understanding comes over him, one more piece of the puzzle clicking into the place. "How did they really die, Jord?" 

"Your mother was killed by a demon. It used poison that slowly ate away at her over years. After she died, Auguste and your father hunted it and killed it. Your father died during the fight." 

He feels reality finally crumble apart around him, reshape itself into something brutal and twisted. He feels unsteady, shaken, like the chair beneath him is turning into liquid. So much of what he thought he knew about the world is a lie. So much of what he thought he knew about his family is a lie. 

He thinks of his parents, and its like peeling at scabs, pressing on an old scar to see if it still hurts. It does, a deep ache that buried itself inside him a long time ago. He feels the urge to scream well up in his chest, tightening the back of his throat, but he remains silent, wills himself to remain calm. He's already mourned them. He's already cried until the skin around his eyes burned, screamed until his throat ached like it had been set on fire and his lungs felt hollow because everything inside of him had been poured out.

Knowing they didn't die exactly how he thought they did doesn't change the fact that they're dead. It doesn't change the way that he grieved them, the way that he still silently grieves them. And it doesn't change anything that happened afterward, how that grief was twisted into a weapon and turned against him, a knife to his chest.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, a quick, reassuring squeeze before it's gone. "I know this is a lot to take in," Jord says. 

"I'm fine," Laurent tells him. "It's not any more difficult to process than the fact I've become a vampire, Jord." 

"About that - can you talk about what happened?" he asks. 

Laurent remains still for a moment, and then nods. Jord has been honest with him, it's only fair that he repay that honesty. He hasn't really spoken to anyone about this, and the words feel heavy as he puts them together in his mind, knowing he's going to have to relive that traumatic event. But he's done this before with a different kind of trauma. 

"It was my uncle," he says. His voice sounds distant, detached. This feels too familiar. A dark fog uncurls in his mind.

Jord looks at him. At first he doesn't seem to process the words, but as realisation dawns on him, a look of dread crosses his face. "Your uncle died in prison," the words come out slowly. "He- he's dead."

Laurent shakes his head, feels his hands tremble. "I couldn't move when I saw him, when I heard his voice. He attacked me. I was too slow to react. I don't remember much before I lost conciousness. The taste of blood and fear in my mouth, agony like open wounds all over my skin. He did something to me, turned me into a monster, and then..." his voice trails off. He thinks of the blade across his brother's throat, the blood around his neck like a rope. The hunger that burned through him, both an all consuming, relentless fire and a furious ocean crashing around inside him.

Jord looks at him. "And then he killed Auguste?"

Laurent shakes his head, and he feels it, like white hot ringing in his ears, like a pile of hot coals poured down his throat, he feels the confession, the truth, burning him from the inside out. It stings as he speaks, the words like acid in his mouth. "I killed him. I killed Auguste," he says, voice strained, trembling. The memories flash, vivid in his mind as the story spills out.

"I didn't mean to. He was fighting with uncle when I woke up. I tried to get there, I tried to do something, but I was too late. My body felt heavy, my limbs wouldn't respond properly to my commands. I dragged myself across the floor, and the pain was so intense I thought my skin was being ripped off as I moved. I thought I must have been drugged with something. It was unbearable," 

"I could only watch helplessly as uncle overpowered Auguste, threw him to the ground - and put a knife across his throat. I couldn't - it felt like I lost control of myself, my body. He was still alive. It might not have killed him. I wanted to help him - Fuck, I wanted to - and then I - I there was so much blood. I tried so hard to fight it. I'm sorry. Auguste is - I'm sorry." 

There's a moment of silence so heavy Laurent feels it like wax on his skin, feels like his insides are melting, pouring out. He isn't sure what to expect, but it's not the way Jord's arms go around him, a gentle, comforting embrace. "It wasn't your fault," he says it with conviction, as though he really believes it. Laurent doesn't understand why.

Laurent's eyes burn, and he closes them, willing himself not to cry. His willpower fails him, he feels the spill of tears on his face. His lower lip trembles, and his voice comes out ragged. "It was my fault. I should have helped him but instead I killed him."

Jord's arms tighten around him. "Your uncle did this, Laurent. Not you."

Laurent shakes his head. "I should have stopped myself," he says. 

"I don't know - I mean I've never experienced it. But from what I know, it's almost impossible when you've just turned. Newborn vampires need to feed within the first day or they die, Laurent. It's a step in the transformation process."

"I would rather be dead if it meant Auguste could still be alive," his voice is strained through the tears.

"You would both be dead, Laurent. The Hunters examined his body. The wound was deep enough to cause severe damage to his carotid artery. He would have died in minutes, there was nothing you could have done to save him." 

He doesn't know what to say to that. He knows it's Jord's way of trying to tell him it's not his fault, but guilt still winds through him like barbed wire, clinging to him painfully. He feels Jord's arms around him, and there's a familiar, almost nostalgic ache in his chest. Jord had been the one who had discovered his uncle's abuse, held him together in the immediate aftermath of his uncle's arrest.

Laurent pulls away slowly, and blinks a few times, wipes at his eyes with shaky hands, and tries to force himself to be calm, to stop trembling. He dislikes when his emotions well up and wash him away, even more so when he's around other people. It feels open, vulnerable, as though his rib cage is being pried apart, his heart pulled from his chest. He forces himself shut again, and feels his brain begin moving through the heaviness in his mind. This is easy, this is familiar. Let everything pour out, and then force it back in, lock it away. Deal with it later, when he's alone, so he doesn't have to fall apart in front of someone else.

"I think I want to be alone right now," he says. 

"I understand," Jord replies. His jaw works as though he's going to say something else, but after a moment he simply nods and stands up, setting his half empty coffee mug on the counter. He looks at Laurent in silence for a second, and Laurent swears he sees a brief flash of something in his gaze, something dark and unsettling. Is he as disgusted by Laurent as Laurent is by himself?

"I can leave my phone number with you, if you need anything," he offers, and his gaze softens with compassion. Jord still looks exhausted, but he seems to be carrying himself a little better now, with the same air of seriousness softened with kindness that Laurent is used to.

He wonders if he imagined whatever he saw in Jord's eyes earlier, if he's projecting his own feelings onto the man now that he's shared this truth, this twisted, ugly secret that's been festering inside him like decay inside a corpse.

Laurent nods. "Thank you," he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly still not 100% on this chapter but I decided I need to get it out of the way so I can move on with the story lmao.  
> New Twitter @ is @Luwucian btw uwu

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on twitter @dumb_af_bitch  
> I need more capri buddies and would love to be friends with yall
> 
> I also drew a pic of vampire Laurent https://lu-lucian-art.tumblr.com/post/613170679176675328/back-it-at-again-drawing-laurent-this-time-a


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